Beach Relapse
by MapleTreeway
Summary: They were just going to go for a walk on the beach. No more, no less. So why did they have to relapse? SpUk story.


**A/N: For anon~ **

**(I tried writing SpUk for once omg)**

**It's said somewhere that the nations all speak this universal language to each other, so that's the reason why some English and Spanish words are italicized. Anything not italicized is basically whatever universal language they speak to each other. Or something. Yeah.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own this anime.**

* * *

Soft kisses trailed from the back of his neck to his ears. They were meant to be innocent enough to not lead into anything else, but powerful enough to distract him from his book. Blushing like mad, Britain forced himself to ignore it. Couldn't the other see he was reading? Couldn't the other see they were outside?

Hands snaked around his middle, pulling the island nation in for a hug. _Ignore it, ignore it, _the Briton reminded himself. Flipping the page a moment later, he couldn't help but notice how the kisses had stopped. Instead, he felt the other nation's head rest on his shoulder peacefully. It was silent for a second or two before the other asked, "What are you reading, _mi querido?"_

"A book," Britain answered vaguely. All hope of not paying attention to Spain was thrown out the window.

Spain lifted his head to look over his boyfriend's shoulder. Eyebrows furrowing in concentration, he tried to decipher what little English he knew. "_He looked _– it is _looked_, _s_í?" When Britain nodded, he continued, "_around the co-corner."_

"Very good!" The native English speaker praised.

The Spanish speaker beamed.

A passing breeze blew by from behind them, causing the nearby flowers to bend and sway. Birds chirped from atop the rustling trees, hanging on to the branches. For a second, Britain could have sworn he smelled spices in the air. But the thought flew out of his mind once lips met his neck again. Cheeks dusted pink, he exclaimed, "S-Spain!"

"Hmm?"

"Not now, you git! We're outside and I'm busy!"

"_¿Qué?_ We're outside in your backyard and you're reading."

Britain sputtered fragments of a sentence, embarrassed.

"Let's do something fun~"

"Like what?"

Spain shrugged. "Something other than you reading."

"Are you saying that there's something wrong with me reading?"

"No, no."

"Well I bloody hope so," the Briton stated righteously, turning back to his book.

"I just wanted to do something with you," the Spaniard explained.

"Such as?"

There was a humming sound as the brown haired nation thought. Before it could get on the blonde's nerves, it stopped and he answered, "Go to the beach?"

"It's early autumn."

"_Sí, __s__í. _It's perfect!"

"Perhaps in your country; but in mine it's dreadful."

"It can't be that bad."

"Why must you always be so optimistic? Besides, the weatherman said it would rain later on today."

Spain looked up at the cloud-dotted sky. "But it's not now," he mused.

Sighing, Britain broke free of the embrace and turned to face him. Weak sunlight shone on the other nation's tanned face, bringing out the green in his eyes. Naturally, his brown hair was in disarray, strands falling in front of his eyes. A happy, hopeful expression in place. Britain felt a part of him crumble inside, much to his dismay; and the words tumbled out before he could stop them. "Fine. If you really want to go for a stroll on the beach –"

"_Gracias a Dios!"_

"– but don't say I didn't warn you."

Nodding venomously, the Spaniard gave a smile as radiant as the sun. Then he stood up, offered his boyfriend a hand, and dragged him inside. He would've dragged him across the hall and out the door too if it weren't for the Briton wrestling his hand away. Turning around, Spain saw his boyfriend grab some coats and an umbrella. When their eyes met, Britain quickly explained that it was just in case the weatherman was right.

The Spaniard walked over and gently removed the items from the Brit's hands. Placing them back in their place, he said, "_Mi tesoro, _you worry too much. Live a little!"

"Pardon me if I don't fancy getting wet," Britain huffed, crossing his arms.

Spain laughed and put an arm around the shorter nation's shoulders. Guiding him to the door, he replied, "It won't rain. You will see."

The blonde just harrumphed. He didn't believe a word of it.

* * *

An hour later and they were strolling along the shoreline arm in arm. Wind whipped at their hair as the waves crashed along the rocks. Overhead, the sky was overcast. To both of their knowledge, they were the only ones there. So, naturally, Spain took the chance to steal a few kisses. Not that he wouldn't have if there were other people, because either way he would've planted one. Or two. Or four…

Britain, surprisingly, didn't mind. He even returned the favor, albeit with slightly pink cheeks. Pointing out to the horizon, the blonde mentioned suddenly, "One of my ships sank just a bit west of here."

It took the brunette to realize that he was talking about his former pirate days. "Were you on it?"

"Thankfully no."

A moment of silence passed before:

"Remember that battle we had?"

"Which battle, git? I can't remember them all."

"The one where I found out you couldn't swim," Spain teased, dancing out of harm's way.

Britain's face turned red. His pride having been pricked, he rounded on the laughing Spaniard. "YOU SODDING – YOU WANKER – HOW _DARE_ YOU BRING UP SUCH AN EVENT! I CAN BLOODY WELL SWIM! YOU ARE TALKING TO A FORMER PIRATE!"

"You were screaming for help, amigo."

"I WAS NOT!"

"A crew member had to rescue you."

"Well – well you're just jealous that I won in the end!" The blonde gave a maniacal laugh after, knowing that it still got under Spain's skin.

The brunette's smile fell off his face and he walked closer. A dark aura emitted from him as he asked, "_¿Qué dijiste?"_

Britain grinned smugly, crossing his arms.

Spain pounced, tackling him to the ground. Sitting on top of him, he pinned the smaller nation's arms down. Green eyes met green eyes, each relapsing into the chaos that was a few hundred years ago. Armada versus Pirate all over again. Hatred scorched in their veins, throwing decades of rebuilding out the window.

"_What did you say?"_ The taller repeated.

"Go to Davy Jones's locker," the shorter spat.

Infuriated, Spain reached behind him for his axe. Only it wasn't there. Eyes widening, he turned his head to look behind him, seeing nothing but an empty, rocky shoreline.

"What…?"

Thunder boomed above them. Both nations looked up in time to see lightning strike across the sky. Another boom, louder this time, caused Spain to release Britain by mistake. The latter pushed the former off of him, and reversed the role. "Your biggest flaw," he stated venomously, "is being easily distracted."

"At least I can swim!"

"Why you –" The pirate reached for his dagger. But, just like Spain's axe, it wasn't there. All he felt was a fabric not like his and no sword and hold on - weren't his pockets on his front coat? Why in the seven seas were they on his rear…

Suddenly the maniac gleam left his eyes as he remembered that they were not, in fact, in the 16th century. Feeling like an idiot, he quickly got off Spain.

Spain, confused about the sudden change of emotion, simply watched as the shorter nation ran a hand through his blonde hair and looked up at the dripping, dark sky. Then he turned to him and said, "I told you it was going to rain."

That was all it took for the Spaniard to come back to reality. In response to his defeat over the weather, he deflated a bit and murmured, "So you did."

A roll of thunder stretched the silence between them. Neither knew what to say about the previous episode. Even Spain was speechless. Several times, he tried to make conversation only to be left with a frustrated nothing. Sitting up in the sand, he looked at Britain. Britain made eye contact and took a deep sigh.

"We should get to cover."

The words were thick and slow as they came out of the blonde's mouth. Spain nodded and got up, dusting off whatever sand was stuck on his clothing. He made a mental note to shower when they got back.

It wasn't as if Britain was much better either. The former pirate's hair was a mess, his clothes ruined, and he was dripping wet. If he had been wearing pirate attire other than casual clothes, he would've looked like something not to be messed with.

* * *

They got home an hour and a half later. The car ride had been a tad awkward, but somehow Spain had kept up conversation. Mainly about something other than pirates and armadas and beaches. When they parked in the driveway, the rain coming down on the windshields like cats and dogs, Britain finally had something to say. Turning to his boyfriend, he did what he always did when times like this arose.

Forget and move on.

He simply said, "The beach relapse never happened."

Spain made a face, but didn't argue. Together, they walked back into the house; wherein they got cleaned up and comfortable again. Watched the television, lived their lives like normal. But both could feel that something wasn't quite right.

Both could taste the fear of relapsing again.


End file.
